No Go
by whatisgoingonjolras
Summary: enjolras x éponine. in which no one know who is wearing whose jeans. nsfw dialogue. oneshot.


Their meal had concluded in a relative, but contended silence. Éponine sat perched in her seat, all awkward knees and tucked legs, while Enjolras sat across from her with his impeccable posture. Both we're picking at the remnants of Éponine's latest culinary disaster when Enjolras' phone began to vibrate on the table.

He immediately reached for it with an autopilot arm that Éponine immediately smacked away. "No phones until dinner's over," she deadpanned, slowly chewing at her last asparagus spear.

Naturally, this resulted in a staring match until she had finished eating that final bite. Then she smiled and nodded, more than pleased that he at least obeyed the rule this time. But now his arm jetted out, grabbing the phone and turning over the display like a man gasping for his last breath.

"Oh for God's sake," he pinched the bridge of his nose and slammed the phone down. "I've got to go in."

"It's 9 o'clock at night, Enjolras. What couldn't possibly wait until you sprint in there at 6 in the am tomorrow?" It wasn't uncommon for him to be gone all night, but usually when he came home, that meant he was done for the evening. She hadn't been prepared to say goodbye to him so soon. It peeved her. This was Their time, not Super-Action-Save-the-World time.

"I know, I know, it'll only be for an hour. Combeferre is saying that our brilliant Courfeyrac sent the wrong email to the wrong group and now we have no paper for those pamphlets, you know the ones that..."

In a last ditch effort to show her displeasure, Éponine decided to put forth every ounce of domesticity in her bones. She angrily cleared the table of plates and angrily dumped them into the sink before angrily leaning against the counter. At first, Enjolras was thrown off by the show, then he was distracted by the way her jeans rode low over her ass. Then he realized something.

"Those are my jeans."

Éponine paused for a second and turned around, eyebrows raised and eyes half lidded, classic 'nonchalant' Éponine. "No, no, these are mine," she pointed to a faint red stain on the right leg. "See? Because I got drunk that one time and dropped that pizza on my lap-"

"Yes." His eyes narrowed. "You were wearing my jeans when you did that."

Well, shit. She shrugged with a frown, tossing a hand to illustrate there was nothing he could do about it.

"You are unbelievable," he huffed, pushing up from the table and heading toward the door. She couldn't help but watch him as he left, striding across the room, his belt straining to keep his jeans stretched over his ass.

"Wait!" She called out. "Those are my jeans, you dickwad!"

He could only open his mouth and stare at the ceiling, no doubt trying to figure out how best to placate her.

"No, I distinctly remember-" He began, immediately interrupted by Éponine rushing toward him and jamming her hands down the back of his pants. "Hey! Hey! Get out of there!"

But she paid him no mind, instead wrenching his belt down, flipping the waistband out and reading the faded numbers and letters printed there.

"Ha! 'Size 4 long.' Men's jeans don't have sizes they go by inches-"

"The only reason you would be privy to that particular information is if you, in fact, were -"

"Take them off! Take them off, now! You're stretching my jeans out with your stupid, dumb, nice ass!"

He crossed his arms. "Only if you take off mine."

Not even a couple seconds later and they were standing in their living room, pant-less and arguing with renewed fervor.

A few choice phrases overheard in this argument:  
"Your jeans are perfectly fine."  
"I can't help it if they're comfy."  
"Where does your dick even go? Those are jeans for people with vaginas."  
"If you take all my jeans, there are no other jeans for me to wear but yours. You've instituted a corrupt system and I won't have it in my house any longer."  
"They look better on me anyway."

Among the litany of insults and the finer points about who should be doing laundry, Éponine had begun to stalk around the house, collecting every pair of jeans they collectively owned. Enjolras simply followed her from room to room without skipping a beat. Until they reached the bathroom, of course, where she dropped the armful of pants in the shower and turned on the water.

His face turned red. Really. When she turned around, triumphant smirk glowing, his face was really, truly red with an inability to respond.

"I still have to go fix that mess at the warehouse, Éponine."

Her reply was to lean back against the shower door, arms crossed and lift an eyebrow. Thus, his reply was to quickly turn on his heel and exit the bathroom. Loud rummaging commenced shortly thereafter.

When Enjolras returned, he returned with his messenger back slung over his shoulder and wearing Éponine's favorite skirt, a long black gauzy thing that fell straight to the floor. His expression was completely impassive, terrifically unfazed as he marched to her, placed a kiss on her forehead, and said: "I'll be back in an hour. Be naked in the bedroom when I come back and we'll call it even."

Pursing her lips, she looked him up and down. There was something in the totally normality of his gait that Éponine couldn't ignore. Nor could she ignore the band of skin exposed between shirt and skirt, the deep v of his hipbones on display. Nor the way the material clung to the curve of his ass.

"You throw on some garters and stockings and heels under that thing. Then we can call it a deal."

He countered quickly, gaze never leaving her face. "Yes garters, yes stockings, no heels and you have that little vibrator thing going when I get here."

"No go on the vibrator then. Garters and stockings aren't the same without the heels."

"I can't fit your shoes," he said, voice lilting as if to remind her.

"Okay, then I get to use the strap-on."

"Deal."

"Deal."


End file.
